Bloody Robes
by Madame Wilhelmina
Summary: The blood on the front of his robes is red. He wasn't aware that it would be, yet somehow it is so. All it takes is a single glance down to see that. Dark fic.


Disclaimer: No this isn't mine. Sigh, do you honestly think that it would belong to me?

_Bloody Robes_

The blood on the front of his robes is red. He wasn't aware it would be, yet somehow it is so. All it takes is a single glance down to see that.

_The blood on his robes is red, it is true blood, as true as his own._

He laughs at the irony of this, faintly aware that he is being stared at. The raven haired witch by his side casts him an approving glance, mistaking his laughter as sadistic pleasure at what he has done, but he dose not notice.

_Because all he knows is that the blood that covers him from head to toe is red. As true as his own._

His laughter dies at the thought. A wave of nausea hits him, has it ever really been absent? His knees tremble dangerously and he rocks back and forth. The feeling leaves him and then returns with full force. He falls to the ground and is violently ill.

_Blood on his robes and all over the place. Cold laughter sounding through the air. No one takes notice of him, he doesn't notice them either. All he notices, all he sees is red._

A short while later and a few Crucios, leave him throbbing in pain and new waves of nausea. But he hardly notices. He didn't fail his task, not really. He did kill at least one person. He knows this.He expects his punishment though, and he excepts it. He doesn't care if his Lord is angry at the moment. Right now all he cares about is getting home.

_There is still blood on his robes and it is making him ill._

Discarding the robes doesn't make the sight go away. The image is burned horribly into his young mind.

_Blood on his robes. Blood everywhere._

Blood coughs from the elf's mouth as it recounts it's tale. Blood as red as his own. He listens patiently, but says nothing. A plan has formed in his mind.

_There is still blood everywhere in his eyes. Blood on his robes, blood on his hands. Blood that refuses to go away. _

A heavy locket dangles in one hand but he hardly notices. He settles himself at his desk and begins to write.

_To the Dark Lord,_

His hearts beats furiously but he preses on. Because he knows that he can't wash away all his crimes, but he can justify them a bit. Or he will at least try.

_Because he has blood on his hands that need to go._

"Kreacher!"

_There is blood on his hands. Why isn't it staining the note?_

"Yes Master Regulus?"

"I need you to show me to the cave."

His heart is beating furiously once more as he enters the cave. He is sure that he has never been more frightened then he is at that moment. But he will press on. This is something that he has to do.

_Because the blood was still on his hands. Haunting him with it's vibrant redness._

A note tucked carfully into the locket. It's words dripping with vengeance.

_There is blood on his robes._

This blood is for real. His nails dig furiously into the palm of his hands as he struggled to a sitting position. He fought back the urge to gag as he looked at his bloody hands.

"Kreacher," he rasped out.

Kreacher looked at him, terrified. "M-Master," the elf croaked out.

Without another word said, he pointed to the basin. Kreacher snatched up the real locket like he was told to and replaced it with a fake. He left just as the Inferi grabbed Regulus.

_There was blood on his robes. Blood on his hands, his arms. _

They drag him under the water. He goes without a struggle, feeling relief course through his veins. The first relief he has felt since his first kill two years ago.

_Because though there is blood still on his robes, it is his own. _

It is nit the blood he saw that day.

It is not the blood of the Muggles that he killed.

It is not the blood of the Order members that he helped track down and kill.

It is not the blood of Kreacher as he recounts his tale.

_It is his own and it looks no different than the Muggle blood he first spilled two years ago. _

He lets out a laugh as he plunges down into the water. How ironic that to a young man who valued blood so highly, he would die with it covering him so thoroughly.

_But it is his own blood, and that is why he laughs._

As everything begins to fade to black, he smiles feeling nothing but content.

_Because there is blood on his robes, blood on his hands, and it is his own. It's vengeance against the Dark Lord, but it is also vengeance against himself. _

_There is blood on his robes, but for once he is glad._


End file.
